


My Kind of Mess

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Neighbors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 22:52:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8466019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: Monty would be thrilled that The Most Beautiful Man in the World lives in his apartment building, if it weren't for the fact that every time they run into each other Monty looks like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.





	

**Author's Note:**

> y i k e s Kristen sent me this prompt (Minty; "What's with the box?") five million years ago but for the life of me, i couldn’t figure out what IS with the box. until i saw [this post](https://ofgeography.tumblr.com/post/144981655676/the-most-beautiful-man-in-the-world-who-lives-in)

If you asked Monty whether he thought he was good-looking, he’d most likely say yes. He has his days where he’s more confident in his looks and his days when he’s more insecure, but so does everyone. 

He thinks he dresses well, if not trendy. Raven has gone on (at length) about his bone structure. And his hair is never as flyaway frizzy as Jasper’s gets on the most humid days of summer.

So, yeah. Monty is as attractive as he cares to be, and that’s good enough for him.

Usually.

So the universe _has_ to be conspiring against him when it comes to The Most Beautiful Man in the World, who happens to live down the hall from Monty. And whom Monty only runs into when he looks like a troll who escaped his underground lair and has Not Yet Learned to blend in with the world above.

The first time he runs into The Most Beautiful Man in the World, he’s completely blindsided. He hadn’t known the apartment was even changing hands, much less that someone new had moved in. 

Even if he had, he never would have anticipated that the newcomer would have beautiful eyes, or facial hair (Monty has a _thing_  for facial hair) that highlights his strong jaw, or arms like small logs, or levels of cool Monty could never hope to achieve.

And Monty _really_  never envisioned meeting The Most Beautiful Man in the World looking like this. Not when Monty’s hair is so greasy he could wax a surfboard with it, when he’s got a pimple on his face that Jasper nicknamed Vesuvius, when he’s got dark circles under his eyes from a game of Risk that went too long, or when he has started to suspect the smell of pork rinds lingering in the air is somehow coming from him.

When he rounds the corner and sees The Most Beautiful Man in the World (or at least the most beautiful man Monty has ever seen in real life) waiting for the elevator, Monty nearly turns back. He freezes on the spot, the theme music from _Psycho_ ringing in his ears as he thinks through every gross thing about himself at this moment.

Before he can beat a hasty retreat, the guy looks up from his phone.

They make eye contact and Monty nearly stops breathing.

And then the guy lifts his chin, a small jerk of the head, a small acknowledgment that has Monty wondering where quicksand is when you desperately need the earth to swallow you whole.

He holds his breath the entire elevator ride down, as if this will somehow retract his stench in this small, enclosed space. When they reach the ground floor, Monty ducks into the alcove with the mailboxes-- he was coming to check his mail, after all-- and waits until he hears the exterior door fall closed before he knocks his head against the metal boxes with a clang.

“He had the element of surprise,” Monty groans to Jasper later, one arm flopped dramatically across his face.

“He probably won’t even remember you,” Jasper replies, his bright-side tone not enough to counteract how depressing that thought is to Monty. He groans again. “Next time,” Jasper adds, trying a different tack as he pets Monty's hair. “Next time will be better.”

 

Next time isn’t better.

Since the first encounter, he’s done some investigating. He knows from the mailboxes and buzzer that his neighbor’s name is Miller. He knows that Miller recycles his coupons instead of leaving them stuffed in the mailbox until they fall onto the floor, where they’ll remain for weeks on end.

And he knows from the weeks of carefully selecting every outfit he wears, of meticulously grooming himself before he sets foot outside his apartment, yet failing to run into him again, that Miller does not catch the 7:40 bus into the city.

Monty never claimed to be a super sleuth.

In fact, he’s starting to think that The Most Beautiful Man in the World wasn’t a neighbor after all, but someone visiting a neighbor. Someone viewing an apartment for rent. Some rando who walked in off the street. He’s Monty’s yeti: a creature he resolutely believes in, yet appears only rarely in the wild.

That’s probably why he isn’t concerned when, in the course of eating lunch one day at work, he spills an entire thermos of tomato soup down his front. It really soaks into his white shirt. He gets used to the smell after a while, but people on the bus keep putting space between themselves and him with a wrinkle of their nose.

He’s never had such a comfortable bus ride. It feels like a life hack.

Running into Miller is shoved to the back of his mind, the forefront more occupied with wanting a shower and a clean shirt. So of course, that’s when it happens.

He gives him the nod he’d received a few weeks back, expecting the same in return. Instead, Miller raises one eyebrow as he eyes The Stain.

“Rough day at work,” Monty supplies, wondering why he cares enough to give this veritable stranger an explanation. Then Miller smirks (beautifully, damn him) and Monty remembers.

“Don’t tell me.” He turns his body more toward Monty, looking him up and down appraisingly. “You’re an extra on one of those TV procedurals.”

Monty laughs, sheepish and surprised.

“Actor, booed offstage.”

Miller half-smiles, the tiny flash of flawless white teeth dazzling Monty. He wonders how many watts a whole smile would be. Wants to find out.

“Seemed impolite to assume you were bad at your job.”

“It’s a passion, thanks.” The elevator arrives and Miller hangs back, gesturing Monty on first. 

It feels like they should chat on the short ride, like they started a conversation that could continue, but it doesn’t. Easy silence pools between them, and when they go their separate ways, it’s with no acknowledgment at all.

 _Next time_ , Monty tells himself, his mantra as he slumps against the door. _Next time, I’ll get it right for sure. I won’t be embarrassing at all._

Except the next time, Monty is so sick he cannot physically bring himself to care about how he looks. He orders Pho to be delivered, the thought of venturing further than the front door an impossible task, and he’s going down to get it when Miller is headed up to his apartment.

Miller pauses, one foot in the door of the elevator to keep it open.

“You okay?”

“Never felt better,” Monty answers, caught somewhere between forced cheerfulness and sarcasm. It would be more believable if his voice wasn’t so nasally and hoarse, reminiscent of Daffy Duck.

“You aren’t…” Miller trails off, studying Monty with blatant skepticism. “Are you going somewhere? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

It’s at this moment Monty gives up the dream of making a good impression on Miller. Any shred of hope he had left is now effectively lost.

Monty might have to move.

“Just down to the lobby. I ordered food.”

“Oh.” Miller smiles a crooked, closed-lipped smile, but it doesn’t feel like he’s laughing at Monty so much as he’s laughing at himself. “Good. Sorry to-- It’s really none of my business. I could just see the headline: _Local Man Collapses, Gets Run Over By Bus_.”

Monty’s heart warms a little at the thought that Miller was worried about him, and then twinges at the thought that, as far as Miller knows, Monty is enough of a disaster of a person to do something like that.

“On the other hand, it’s always cool to see people you know get their fifteen minutes of fame.”

Miller just smiles again. “That’s true.” The elevator doors beep and he startles, stepping back out of the way. “Feel better,” he calls before they close.

After that, Miller is more friendly when he sees Monty around. Even when Monty is sopping wet, having been caught in a downpour without his umbrella. Or when he’s crusty-eyed and withdrawing into his hoodie like a turtle into its shell, hungover and headed out with Jasper for some greasy breakfast.

They’ll make some kind of small talk and it’s nice because Monty is so certain that his bad impression is set in stone that he doesn’t get as nervous as he might have otherwise, talking to such a beautiful human. Without the barrier of self-consciousness, he’s able to speak with some modicum of wit. It’s kind of amazing.

Miller might think him a mess, but Monty will be damned if he doesn’t think Monty is a charming mess.

Then one day it happens. The unprecedented. The unimaginable. The unexpected.

He runs into Miller on a day when he’s fresh and clean, in his nice and not-unattractive work clothes. They’re both exiting their apartments at about the same time. Monty looks down to double-check but no, he’s decent. He might even go so far as to say he’s looking _good_ today.

And then he sees that Miller is carrying a box labeled ‘kitchen’ and it’s like a trapdoor opened underneath him.

Maybe Miller isn’t moving out. Maybe it’s not what it looks like. After all, Monty’s looks have been pretty deceiving in every interaction they’ve ever had. Still, he can’t stop his mood from taking a nosedive.

Miller doesn’t notice, smiling at Monty when he sees him. “Hey. You mind?”

“Oh, sure.” Monty leans forward to hit the button for the elevator. At least this gives him a pretty good opening. “What’s with the box?”

Miller looks down in surprise, as if Monty wouldn’t have noticed it, and clears his throat.

“Uh-- It’s a box of my ex-boyfriend’s stuff.” He sounds normal, but he’s not meeting Monty’s eyes. Like he feels awkward. 

Monty feels awkward too; he hadn’t known it was such a loaded question.

He grapples for some response and all he comes up with is, “Good.” Which then makes him flush as hard as he had that time Jasper tricked him into eating a ghost pepper. Miller’s lips quirk into a smile.

“Good?”

“Not-- I meant, like-- Good because that means you’re moving on, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Miller’s smile widens, showing that flash of teeth again. Monty’s collar is too tight all of a sudden and he hooks a finger in it, trying to give himself some room to breathe.

“Shit.” Monty laughs, lifting his hand higher to run it through his hair. “I’m making this more awkward, right? I didn’t know how to respond-- I wouldn’t have asked in the first place if I’d known it was such a loaded question.”

Miller laughs too, a sound Monty doesn’t think he would ever tire of hearing.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. You’re right, it is good.”

They arrive at the lobby doors and Monty hurries forward to hold the door for Miller. As they pass, Miller’s eyes catch on his work badge.

“So you’re Green, then?” He asks. “Not Jordan?”

“Yeah. Monty Green.”

“Nathan Miller. Nate. I’d shake, but--” He nods at his full hands. “I’m kind of carrying this _good_ box right now--”

“Yeah, yeah.” Monty laughs and rolls his eyes. He can handle teasing. He wouldn’t be friends with Jasper or Raven if he couldn’t. “Which way are you headed?”

“Into the city. I’m supposed to drop this stuff off before work so I don’t have to carry it around all day.”

“Bus?”

“Yeah.”

“Same.” They fall into step together, trading basic information like what they do for a living and going from there. It’s comfortable, easy to talk to him. The sting of disappointment when Nate’s stop comes is as unsurprising as it is unwelcome.

Nate doesn’t seem to feel the same, his parting smile the medium-sized one, with the teeth. It carries Monty on a wave of elation all the way through lunch.

 _Nate_ , he thinks. It’s like a fresh start. He might have humiliated himself in front of Miller, but with Nate, well, the odds might be more in his favor.

 

The next time, it’s not Nate he sees first.

He’s heading into his building after game night at Raven and Gina’s when he hears “Hold up!”

Normally he wouldn’t stop for something like that, not after midnight on a weekend, but then he hears a familiar cadence, the rise and fall of a familiar timbre, and he can’t not look. Not when it might be Nate.

And it is Nate, arm draped haphazardly across an equally beautiful man’s equally broad and muscular shoulders, leaning into him comfortably and babbling as the two of them stumble along. The unknown man looks exasperated and exhausted, and relieved when he sees that Monty has stopped for them.

“Thank you,” he huffs when they get within non-shouting range. “My friend lives in your building, but I didn’t want to stop on the street to dig around in his pockets for his keys--”

“Yeah, I know Nate,” Monty assures him, the word ‘friend’ bouncing around in his mind like a kid on a sugar high. “He lives down the hall from me. Come on in.”

“Thanks.” The two of them get Miller inside and on the elevator with minimal trouble. His eyes are drooping and Monty can’t make out what he’s saying any better now that he’s up close. Inexplicably, he finds that cute.

The guy introduces himself as Bellamy, and nods knowingly when Monty gives his own name.

“I’ve heard of you,” he says with a smirk.

Monty’s heart trips over itself, wondering what exactly Bellamy might have heard. Whether he’s heard about Monty the friendly neighbor or Monty the walking garbage fire.

“Miller was trying to convince us that he hasn’t been a hermit since he and Bryan broke up,” Bellamy continues, oblivious. Monty’s heart trips again when Bellamy calls him Miller. “You were a key piece of evidence that he’s had human interaction.”

“I see.” The doors open then and save him from having to answer further. “You need a hand?”

“I’ve got him,” Bellamy grunts, heaving Nate the short walk to his door. “His keys are in his front right pocket but if I let go, I’m going to drop him. You mind?”

“Uh, no.” There’s the ghost pepper flush again, as he reaches into Nate’s pocket. He thanks every god he’s ever heard of that he finds the keys without having to feel around too much, without finding anything _else_  first, retracting his hand as if Nate has a scorpion in his pocket.

“Thanks again,” Bellamy says, dragging his friend, dead asleep, inside. “And I’m sure Miller will thank you too, if he’s not too embarrassed to show his face.”

 _I know the feeling_ , Monty wants to say. Instead, he just nods at Bellamy and heads quickly back to his own apartment, letting out a long breath when he’s safely behind his own door.

Nate Miller might be the death of him.

 

The next day is Saturday, which means Monty has nothing to occupy his mind except Nate-- Nate telling his friends about Monty, Nate being an adorable drunk, Nate, Nate, Nate. He’s trying to distract himself with some mid-afternoon Super Smash Bros when there comes a knock on the door.

Only to find Nate standing there, a sheepish expression on his face.

“Hey,” Monty says, aiming for more surprised than pleased. He maybe gets there.

“Hey.” Nate gnaws on his lip, a move that ought to be illegal. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

 _The only thing you’re interrupting is me trying not to think about you,_  Monty thinks. He wisely keeps that to himself, saying instead, “Not at all. You want to come in?”

“Yeah? Okay.”

Jasper is out, covering a shift at the bar for Gina, so it’s just the two of them. Monty is hyper aware of that fact as they settle on the couch, though Nate seems to be lost in his head somewhere.

“What’s up?” Monty prompts when Nate doesn’t say anything.

“I feel like I might’ve made a fool of myself last night. I can never tell with Bellamy, he gives me too much shit either way. But, uh-- he told me you helped him get me upstairs and-- I know I kind of ramble when I’m drunk--”

Monty interrupts the babbling as gently as possible, trying not to laugh at how ironic this is. “You were incoherent by the time I saw you,” he assures him. “I couldn’t understand a word you were saying.”

“Good.” Nate leans back, relief unwinding his shoulders. “Thanks for helping me out like that. That was really nice of you, even if I didn’t know it at the time.”

“You should really thank Bellamy. He did most of the work.”

Nate makes a face. “I’m not thanking him for anything; it was his fault I got that wasted. He makes me do shots, he has to pay the price.”

Monty laughs. He doesn’t think he’s imagining the way Nate brightens a little.

“I think that’s fair.” He pauses but it feels safe to say, “I also think it’s funny you’re apologizing for being drunk when you’ve seen--” He gestures to himself. “You know.”

Nate’s brow furrows. “What do I know?”

“You _know._ ” Monty repeats the gesture along with the words. At Nate’s continued puzzled expression, he sighs. “The soup stain? The flu? The _pork rinds smell_?”

“I'm not connecting the dots here,” Nate says, shaking his head. Monty gapes.

“Every time I see you I look disgusting,” he finally says. 

A smile stretches across Nate’s face, a bigger one than Monty has ever seen. When he speaks, there's laughter in his voice.

“Every time I see you I can’t think about anything except how you’re cute and I want to talk to you. I’m so bad at-- I don’t do small talk well. You saw me the day you were sick, I go straight to-- too involved. That’s what I was afraid I told you last night.”

Monty blinks. None of this is computing. Maybe he's dreaming. Maybe he somehow made it into a universe where everything is opposite. If he did, he never wants to leave.

“So--” He wets his lips, which are suddenly Sahara-dry. “Let me get this straight. We’re both so worried about being embarrassing we didn’t notice we both like each other?”

Nate’s smile widens. It stretches across his whole face now, lighting up like nothing Monty has ever seen.

“Sounds like something that would happen to me.” Nate cocks his head. “Do you have plans tonight?”

Monty pinches himself subtly. It hurts.

“No.” His grin is quicker, but just as lingering. “I’m very available.”

“Good.”

“Good?” Monty echoes, flashing back to the box situation. Nate laughs, ducking his head.

“You know what I mean.”

 

(They stay in and order takeout while they play Wii. 

At the end of the night, when Monty walks Nate back to his door, he slides a hand to the nape of Nate’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s sweet and quick, an affectionate tease that Monty intends as a promise of more to come. 

Because, activities aside, it’s been the best date Monty can imagine: the kind where neither of them are working to impress the other, the kind where they can just be themselves. Embarrassing moments and all.)


End file.
